Why Graduation Freaking Sucks

I feel like a pig.

No, it’s not the entire bag of White Cheddar Puffy Cheetos I just ate in one sitting...that barely phased me. 

But it’s this thing called college that makes me feel like swine. 

In my messed up brain, college is very similar to pig farming. We all come to the farm as little piglet freshman, new to the world and excited by everything. Our professors and mentors are our farmers, herding us into the pens and farmhouses of success, motivating us with various words of affirmation that somehow keep our little piggy tails wagging.

Nothing rewards 13 hours of studying like some words of affirmation. 

The Caf is our troth--a smorgasbord of delectability used solely as a way to fatten us up. There’s four years of blissful farm life: hot summer days spent rolling around in mud (date parties), watching the cows get herded around like a bunch of animals (Greek rush). Honestly, to my little piggy mind, it couldn’t get any better than this.

This farm is my home. These farmers are my friends. I will never leave this place. 

Then they do it.

They fucking slaughter you. They make you graduate.

Breakfast with a side of quarter-life crisis

In two short months I will be donning my form fitting graduation gown, attempting to squeeze my too small, dinner-plate-like graduation cap onto my oversized head, and blow that strange lamp fringe tassel out of my eyes. I will walk onto stage a terrified 5th grader inside a 22 year old body and walk off that stage...well... a terrified 5th grader inside a 22 year old body with a diploma.

I haven’t had an identity crisis quite like this one since when I was 6 and my brother told me that girls couldn’t be sidekicks to Walker Texas Ranger. (But don’t worry, I just reevaluated my existence and decided I wanted to grow up to be a tiger instead).

Don’t get me wrong, I have learned a lot in college. I have learned to never walk down the South Oval at 10:30, 1:30 or 3:30 or else you’ll make awkward eye contact with every person you have ever met in your life. I have learned that Wong Key in the Union should only be eaten when the Chick-Fil-A line is  at least 30 people long...wait, no 40 people. Hell, Wong Key should never be eaten.

I have learned to always put on your best face on for employers and never post anything on social media that you wouldn’t want them to see. That is why I have this blog that demonstrates my best qualities, shows my potential and makes them want to hire me. (Oh...wait...).

I have also learned that there are various reasons why I am not ready for the adult world.

Reasons Why Growing Up Just Ain’t My Thang:

(besides the fact that I just said “Ain’t" and “Thang”)

1. Car washes still scare the hell out of me.

No, not like those cheerleader in bikinis, lets-raise-money-by-showing-off-our-bods car washes. (Although that does sound like my worst nightmare). But those gas station car washes where you just drive into that little cave of water and soapy magic.

First off, it’s terrifying/confusing to even get in there. What if my tires miss those little tracks that move my car forward? Will my car just explode? I know it says STOP on that big light up sign, but it reallllly looks like the end of my car is still sticking out...Maybe I shouldn’t trust that sign and move forward a little.

And then, once you’re in there, it’s like a scene from Saw. The noises, the claustrophobia of the soap covering the windows. Around the second spraying of water, I honestly think my windows won’t be able to take it and the water will shatter them, thus leading me to my watery grave inside my car without ever finding true love or a Forever 21 shirt that actually fits right. That’s the worst way to die. Car washes are a valid fear.

But then again, I could be making all of this phobia up as an excuse to never wash my car.

2. I can never finish a game of Monopoly.

I have never hated my family more than the moment I landed on Park Place with two hotels. Honestly, Monopoly is a clear indication of how you will manage your finances in the future. And if that’s the case, I’m going to buy my homes solely based off the color of their paint job (Sure I’ll take Baltic Ave! Purple is my fav color!) and then when my home gets foreclosed on, I’m going to flip some furniture over in anger, take my thimble and get the hell out of there.

3. My skill set is very limited.

If there was a way to find a major where my skills could be handy I would do it. Sadly, the most impressive thing I’m good at currently is being able to blindly navigate my iPhone passcode in the sunlight when my brightness is turned all the way down. (Do you think I could put that on my resume?)

But you know what, readers?! Despite what we all are taught in life, you’re not supposed to graduate college and know what you want to do for the rest of your existence. In college, you’re supposed to learn how to learn, how to lead, how to network and how to be self-motivated. College is all about the ups and downs. College is supposed to make you terrified for the future, because thanks to college, our futures are all pretty bright.

Okay enough sappy stuff, college is also supposed to make you realize why Burnett’s is only 5 dollars.

The Year of the Quirky Girl

2013 might just be my year.

That meteor that almost hit Russia must have triggered a shift in the gravitational pull of the earth, upsetting the laws of attraction. (I read a Tweet article book about it once, so it must be true).

Suddenly the male species of the population is acting very strangely.

Usually when I picture a male’s vision of a woman, Tina Fey hit the nail on the head.

"Every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.”

       But you know what, Mrs. Fey? I beg to differ. I think men have finally figured it out! They finally understand that it’s the inside that counts. I mean, they’ve had a millennial to do it, so it’s about time isn’t it? 

        There’s a new trend of leading ladies on the block: J-Law, Zooey, Lena, Emma. These girls are the real thing. No more need to ever feel socially, physically or mentally inadequate ever again.

       Girls, it’s finally time for us to stop trying so hard. This is our year. Throw out that pair of high heels and replace them with some Keds. Start wearing your bottle cap lens glasses more often that just when you’re out of contacts. Hell, why not wear your retainer all of the time?

      

The Year of the Quirky Girl: 

Why we can all stop hiding our true selves

1. Looking like a grandma is hot. 

All the signs point to this conclusion. 

• My grandma wears matching sets of pajamas with various animals printed on them. 
• Zooey Deschanel wears matching sets of pajamas with various animals printed on them. 
• Men think Zooey Deschanel is hot. 

So, obviously, as the transitive property states.. Wait hold on let me do the math ( if a = b and b = c and if trains a and b are moving in opposite directions 40 mph, then, carry the two... a = c). 

Then, yes. Grandmas = hot. 

Looking hot has never been so comfortable. It’s just so refreshing to know that, thanks to The Year of the Quirky Girl, not only are guys turned off by the thought of showing skin, but they appreciate the style and charm of a woman three times his age. 

In my attempt to be extra hot, I decided to take the Grandma Chic Trend a little further. 

I’m looking so hot, I’ll need a stick to beat the boys away. (Or a cane. Ba dum ch.)

2. Falling is cool. 

Thanks, Jennifer Lawrence. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now, whenever I bust my ass, no longer will people say “Oh Maggie, you are just so clumsy.” They will look at me, with adoration in their eyes and say: “Oh Maggie, you are just so Jennifer.” And then I will proudly pick myself up off of that street curb I had just tripped on, wipe the blood pouring from both my kneecaps and walk away fist pumping like that gross guy from The Breakfast Club.

Suddenly, this girl is super cool:

3. Animals turn guys on. 

At least, that’s what I have deduced from the various hot, quirky girls and their animals. If you are holding/touching/talkingabout/thinkingabout/cryingabout an animal, it’s cute. It shows you’re sensitive. Guys like sensitive. 

I recently tried out this courting technique during a first date.  I made sure to hit all the Quirky Girl points for effect. 

Wearing grandmother’s (2 sizes too small) vintage shoes (pain is beauty). Check.

Fell to the ground in an art museum (minimal blood). Check.

Needless to say the date was going awesome! I’m pretty sure I almost had him reeled him. Just had to complete the trifecta and add an animal reference in there and he would be hooked. I kept trying to slip some sort of puppy joke or hoping he brought up some past pets or something during dinner. 

The dinner was almost over. We had talked about how much we had in common, our similar music tastes and how we both loved to volunteer. Obviously, the date was turning to shit. We were heading out of the restaurant, and I knew I had to salvage it with at least one mention of an animal. I had to show I was sensitive and dateable! I couldn’t find a relevant conversation, so I just said it:

“I had a pet rat once.”

I can’t really remember how the rest of the date turned out, I’m pretty sure I blacked out due to excitement about completing the Quirky Girl Trifecta. But, because its the Year of the Quirky Girl, I’m sure he loved it. My phone’s been acting a little weird lately though, so I’m sure he’ll Facebook message me back to tell me if he did. 

 So thanks, Hollywood Quirky girls. 

Thank you for being for being a good example of the average girl...

Thank you for not being intimidatingly hot and uh..making me...uh...not feel bad about myself...

And thank you, Quirky Girls, for giving men the expectation that average girl is hilarious, awkward AND smoking hot.

The Year of the Quirky Girl: 

Why we’re all screwed.

I’ve Been Corrupted

I’m not proud of the person that I have become.

I used to think of myself as a simple girl. I enjoyed the simple things in life: walks in the park, the wagging tail of a puppy, a warm cherry pie.

Not anymore. I have been corrupted. And I’m not going back.

I had an aversion to Apple products. I’ve always told myself you can never trust something that’s named after a fruit. ( Fruit of the Loom underwear? Creepy, who wants a phallic banana logo on their boxers?) Perhaps if Steve Jobs named his company after a more appealing food I would be more on board. I can see it now: Introducing the iPhone 5 from Pudding. It just sounds so much more delicious.

I don’t know when I had my Come-To-Jobs moment. It could of been because when my Blackberry vibrated in my backpack, it sounded like a swarm of hundreds of African killer bees were trapped in my bag. It could have been when my Dell computer broke for the 3rd time in a year when I dropped from A FOOT off the ground onto CARPETED floor with a CASE on it.

Or it could be when Gaylord College gave me an iPad Mini.

If you all remember, the Education College received iPads last semester and it ignited this social media war. Suddenly, for the first time ever, Pre-Med undergrads were jealous of those selfless bleeding hearts that want to dedicate their lives to screaming children and awful pay. The tweets were getting heated. So of course, I had to jump on the bandwagon.

I got some backlash from my Education friends, correcting me because they actually received iPad 4s. But hey, I’m a journalism major and SINCE WHEN do journalists fact check?

So now, here I am..with my Macbook, iPhone and now iPad Mini. And let me tell you, Fun-Sized Snickers are pretty damn tasty. But also like Fun-Sized Snickers--there’s no real point to them.

Jimmy Kimmel sums up how I have been using my iPad so far:

But now being the tech savvy person that I am, there are still some problems I have with my new gadgets and just technology in general.

1. It expects me to remember things about myself.

Thank you, Exchange, for locking me out of my e-mail.

How am I supposed to log into my e-mail if you’re going to just spring questions on me like that? Pretty soon they’re going to be asking me “What are you wearing?” and “What was the name of that kid that smelled like cat litter that sat next to you in AP Bio junior year?” I know you’re trying to protect my identity, Technology, but could you please ask me more relevant questions like “How long was Kim Kardashian married to Kris Humphreys?” That shit’s important.

2. It questions my attention span. 

Stop with the sass, Pandora. It’s not like I’m getting this music for free or anything! (Oh, wait..) Yes, I’m still listening! I have been listening for 8 hours as I try to finish this 10 page paper that I procrastinated until the last minute. So please for the love of Steve Jobs, GET BACK TO PLAYING MY MULAN RADIO STATION.

3. It makes me realize that I’m an idiot.

Google is a blessing. Now with just a click of a button any information in the world can be at our fingertips. Think of the things you can learn?! Obviously my past Google searches show that I really am on a quest for knowledge.

Some say that technology has killed our communications. And you know what I want to say to them?

STFU, k? TTYL! 

Why the Cavemen Had It Right

It used to be easy to find a mate.

 In the prehistoric era, all you needed was a couple of grunts and a weapon. If only men could still club a deer on the head and drag it back to the cave. That shit's impressive. Now a days, the ways of finding a mate have somehow digressed even lower down the evolutionary chain than caveman.

So this one's for you, Men of OU. Someone has to tell you that you're doing it wrong.

First off, bro, why are you reading my blog? Yes, you. Sitting there staring at my very feminine and girly layout. What if someone sees you? Your manly reputation will be ruined. Perhaps you're reading it on a phone so no one knows. I have a word of advice: Don't stop. Don't ever stop. (Just delete your history and pretend like you were looking for pictures of Megan Fox). 

Secondly, your mating techniques suck. It's not necessarily you're fault. You just weren't properly trained.

Instead of flexing your survival prowess like the caveman, you have downgraded to impressing the female gender with Lemon Drop Shots. There's nothing that makes me want a guy more than watching him sip, pinky-out an overly sugary drink and then top it off by seductively sucking on a lemon. Hubba-hubba.

And finally, I really didn't think verbal communication could get much worse than the occasional grunts and a hair pull of our CaveGuys and CaveLady ancestors. But who needs a grunt whenever you can just Poke a girl on Facebook?

I am slightly confused what Mark Zuckerberg was thinking when he thought of this flirting technique. "What am I going to do? I can't think of anything witty, flirty or at all charming to post on my potential mate's Facebook wall, but I still want them to know that I am potentially considering them as a make out partner. Oh. I know! I will virtually stick my pointer finger into the side of their stomach! That gets 'em every time!"

Just a little advice, Men of OU. No one like that but the Pillsberry Dough Boy.

But hey, boys. It's a new year. 2013 has endless possibilities that can be completely free of Lemon Drop Shots and Facebook poking. NEW YEAR, NEW YOU, AM I RIGHT?

Okay, stop reading. It's getting embarrassing.

And here's a picture of Megan Fox just to make your Y chromosome a little more apparent.

Jesus Christ(mas)

Dear Mrs. Claus,

I just got done taking a Women and Gender Studies class, and it made me look at this patriarchal world with a fresh set of eyes. Therefore, I'm not going to write that controlling bearded bastard any more letters telling him what I want for Christmas.

Plus, I've been pissed at him ever since I asked for a skateboard in 3rd grade and instead he gave me an Easy Bake Oven that said:

To Maggie,
     Women belong in the kitchen.
                    Love, Santa

And besides, we all know you, Mrs. Claus, are the real brains of the operation on deciding who has been naughty and who has been nice. Believe me, when my mom would be gone for the night and just my dad was in charge, shit would get crazy. Ice cream for dinner, no bedtime, the works. If it was just Santa calling the shots, no one would get coal and he probably would be delivering presents unwrapped and only wearing his boxers.

So please, please, please, from one broad to another, take my Christmas List to heart. Just once. For me. For women everywhere.

Maggie's Christmas List:

1. More things made out of Doritos. The Doritos Locos Tacos were a gift from God. Tacos...wrapped in shells...made of Doritos?!

I'm pretty sure Taco Bell's marketing team made a focus group of a bunch of stoners and asked them what sounded good to them. Thank you stoners. It was step in the right direction, but why stop now? The options are limitless. America may not be able to agree on gun control, but we all can sure agree that everything is better with a healthy tasting of Nacho Cheese.

2. Some pepper spray so I can regift it to the girl in "Baby It's Cold Outside." I'm not quite sure what makes "Baby It's Cold Outside a Christmas song? Is it because it's snowing? Bing Crosby's smooth vocals?  There's no mention of a Christmas tree (or menorah for all you Jews out there).

 I can't lie, I love that song. But that dude is really creepy. She keeps saying she needs to go, but he keeps coming at her. He probably was in a fraternity in college because I'm pretty sure he slips her a roofie at some point. Nothing says Christmas like a little eggnog and Rufilin!

3. Better luck at Dirty Santa. Nothing quite gets me in the Christmas spirit more than stealing presents from my friends and family! I mean, does my grandma reallllly need that electric blanket? Recently, I played a whopping game of Dirty Santa with some friends. The presents were good, I mean really good. A pack of classic DVDs. Some champagne. Nerf guns. I mean the options were limitless.

This is what I ended up with:

What luck!  Brushing my teeth is so much more enjoyable when its with a phallic object! Perhaps I shall regift this in my family's Dirty Santa to make up for stealing my grandma's electric blanket.

4. Some sticky boobs that don't look like raw chicken cutlets. For you men that read my blog (all two of you) "sticky boobs" (which I'm sure are the official name of the brand) are a magical bra bewitched by some sort of sorcerer or wizard. That's all you need to know. But magic always has it's downside. (Just look at Harry Potter 3 when Harry and Hermione used the time turner to go save Buckbeak. I mean, if such a thing exists in the world, why wouldn't you use it to save a giant ostrich-horse? It's not like Harry could have used that in any other situation when someone important to him died.)

But...anyway... The downside of this bra magic is that it has to look like you just bought it from the meat section in Walmart.

5. At least 3 extra paper towel dispensers and/or hand dryers in girls' bathrooms I'm pretty sure that seconds before I enter girls' bathrooms, there is a slip and slide contest that I wasn't invited to. That's the only reason that every surface in the bathroom--floors, counters, toilets, you name it--should be COMPLETELY SOAKING WET.

I know we go to bathrooms in packs, but is it really necessary to have water fights so intense that I literally have to hold my iPhone in my mouth while I'm washing my hands for fear of getting water damage.


So that's it Mrs. Claus. That's all I ask. And don't worry, instead of setting out cookies for Santa, I'll lay out a cute pair of earrings from Forever 21 and some face moisturizer. GIRL POWER!

Love,

Maggie

Until next time.

The Stuff I Hear Through My Walls

You know that old saying "if walls could talk?"

Well, mine do.

Or at least, any and every person outside who may be in a 200 yard radius talks. Loudly.

If my walls were a celebrity, they'd be Kate Moss. Or Nichole Richie. Or Perez Hilton after the diet and drugs. Paper. Freaking. Thin. (PFT)

I have a great house location. I can leave my house at 8:53 and make it to my class by 9:00. People would pay tons of money to live in our location. (Oh wait, we already do..thanks Bob).

However, there are some drawbacks.
My PTF walls seem to do the opposite of noise cancellation and instead help outside sounds reverberate around my room. It would seem to be a cool spy technique; if only I were Harriet the Spy and discovered secret meetings in the Chi-O parking lot next to my window where assassins plot a professor's pending murder. Their hushed whispers would be then picked up by my PFT walls, each word of their plan echoing through my room as I furiously transcribe their plot in one of those spotted cow-looking notebooks. I would save the day. People would chant my name. All thanks to my PFT walls.

But instead. All I hear is crap.

The Crap I Learn Through My Walls:

The surrounding frats really do live up to their stereotypes: Who needs Pandora, Spotify or I-tunes when you have fraternities nearby? It must be in their code of brotherhood to blast music outside of their windows for all the surrounding houses to hear. Perhaps its their proverbial way of marking their territory the way dogs pee on bushes. I don't necessary like to play into stereotypes, but the surrounding music choice of the three (yes count them THREE) fraternities fit perfectly into their Greekrank stereotypes. Sig Ep usually has some Rastafarean number blaring while they play frisbee in Kappa's front yard. The sound of country music coming from Beta weekly honestly makes me want to take a line out of one of the songs  and "put a boot in their ass" to make it stop and well, I'm not sure if it is technically music, but the private boys of SAE just listen to the Rush Limbaugh show on the radio while they count their daddy's money. That is almost as bad as Justin Bieber.

Chi-O's really love Phillip Phillips and loud noises: There are only a couple things I can count on daily: the likelihood of my iPhone's autocorrect to make me sound silly and the consistency of the Chi-O's parking lot. Have no fear, every day a certain SUV's car alarm will sound, piercing the sweet sanctuary of my room. We have pinned down the car, now we are just pinning down the reason. Could it be that her car is just a hot commodity for car burglars? Could it be that rather large acorns from the nearby tree are setting it off? Or could it be that she just really has a habit of accidentally hitting her panic button? We may never know.
There is also one Chi O that loves song "Home" by Phillip Phillips. She really does have a wonderful voice as she pulls into the parking lot, blasting it at at least volume 86 and singing her lungs out. I really don't blame her; it's a great song. I just want to know her name so I can refer her to Chi O's Scandals directors and make sure she doesn't slip through the cracks and accidentally make the show.

Kappa must be feeding a small nation in their basement: There is no other explanation than this one for the trash truck to come to Kappa EVERY. DAY. at 7am in the morning to empty out the giant dumpster. Either the basement filled with thousands of hungry village people who consume hundreds of pizzas a day, therefore resulting in hundreds of pizza boxes or Kappa is just punishing me via audio torture because I disregarded the rules and hammered nails in their walls sophomore year.

The outcome of the OU game, before I know the outcome of the OU game: I can't lie. I love watching football from the comfort of my couch. Sure, I will put on my game day attire, attend the tailgates and join the celebration once its over, but when most people are getting out their student IDs and tickets and heading to the stadium early, I like to turn on heel, grab a blanket and yell at my television. However, because my house is so close and my walls are PFT, I highly considered the alternative: paying the money to go uncomfortable stand in the student section next to a dude that smells like whiskey and curses too much.  So you know that big game we just played called "Bedlam"? I was praying for a win just like every other OU Fan. Except they knew 10 seconds before me. You see, television is a little behind live action. There I was, on the edge of (my very comfy) couch seat during overtime, with 10 seconds left. The ball gets snapped. And boom. The cannons from the field and an uproar of voices fill our room. I guess we won. So much for the suspense of the game. But then again, I guess the 10 second delay did save me from biting off my fingernails as I usually do while watching a suspenseful sporting event.

So readers, next time you walk by my house, just whisper a small "hello." Don't worry, I'll hear you through my PFTs.

10 Reasons I'm Seceding from the Union

This whole election business has got me thinking.

If something doesn't make me happy, I can just leave. It's genius.

One time when I was 8, my mom wouldn't let me watch Jerry Springer. I was furious. I grabbed my Teddy, packed my My Little Pony suitcase and started walking. I was going to show that bitch who was boss. But then I got hungry about 15 minutes later and turned home, so that didn't really work out too well.

But hey, if Oklahoma and many other states are seceding from the Union after this recent presidential election, then by God, I can too.

Now, I don't really care too much for politics. But there are plenty of things that piss me the hell off. AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE.

10 Reasons I'm Seceding From The Union:

1. When I see a picture of Justin Bieber I can't tell if it's him or a lesbian. 

Which is which?

2. The Pad Industry thinks we're stupid. 

Really people, BLUE? You confused about 60% of 5th graders.

3. Nickelodean allowed the doctor in Rugrats to be named Lipshitz.

YOU THINK WE REALLY WOULDN'T NOTICE?

4. It's socially acceptable whenever someone loses something for people to respond by "Well, it's always in the last place you look." OF COURSE IT IS. Why would I still be looking AFTER I've already found it?

5. People actually wear this shirt...seriously. Screw the Whales. Who cares about Kony anymore anyway? Let's free the rapper that ACCIDENTALLY SHOT HIMSELF one time and DRINKS A MIXTURE OF COUGH SYRUP AND VODKA TO GET HIGH. 

There's no other cause you can stand behind?

6. Winning beer pong is absolutely pointless, yet people still play. People play drinking games to drink. But if you win beer pong, you technically drink less and the loser drink more. So are the losers actually the winners in the long run? Trying to figure it out hurts my brain the same way watching time-travel movies does. 

It's just plain confusing.

7. Taco Bell only gives me 2 packets of hot sauce when it's obvious that I need more. Really, TB, do you think 2 packets of FIRE Sauce are enough for my 3 soft tacos, fiesta nachos, 2 chimichangas order? There's no way me and my friends are going to ration that FIRE Sauce like it's the last canteen in the Gobi Desert. 

The messages should just go ahead and say WE'RE CHEAP.

8. The fact that the Texas flag and the Chile flag are so damn similar. Could we not be a little more unique guys? It confused the hell out of me when I studied abroad there and now everyone thinks that my Chile flag sticker means I'm from Texas. 

Such creativity.

9. Hostess went out of business. There's only one person I can blame for this. OBAMA. First he takes my Twinkies then he's taking my money. 

America without Twinkies is pretty much North Korea.

10. That Google is being taking over by communists. There's really no other reason I can think of besides communism that would prevent my recent Googles to not show the results I want.

Could I have been any clearer? Obviously the government is controlling Google to not allow me to ask about these damn stickers I'm trying to remember. If anyone remembers the name of those stickers that we all had plastered over our binders as children let me know.

TAKE THAT OBAMA.

Next time you read this blog, readers, I will be posting from my own nation. It's about darn time. 

Until next time